Not a soul in the world to be seen or heard for as long as the old warrior could ever wish for. Noises still crept about the cavern, drips of water falling from ceiling to pool before him, errant wisps of the harsh desert winds licking the walls, and the shuffling and moaning of the risen sentries that roamed the halls.

Before him extended a pond of sorts, no more than a foot deep but several tens across, fed from above through fissures and cracks all leading to the once barren Thousand Needles. Between him and water stood a relic… no, a reminder of what he truly was now. A fallen warrior, blight upon the world.

Scourge.

A massive katana etched with runes, held a hairs width from the stone floor turned slowly as if barely nudged by a breeze. Two ethereal arms of azure light wound up an invisible cone surrounding the great weapon, turning no quicker by the same unseen force. Each rune casting a faint blue glow to the dull stone walls, and inevitably to its owner’s from.

Scar upon scar, skin pale and rotten, dotted with open wounds oozing out thick black ink. The old elf had, without question, seen better days as he caught his reflection in the slowly rotating blade. The back of his head was still missing a fair portion from his last major action. Bullet holes in both armor and flesh, combined with burns from powerful spells left their telltale marks all over his torso and arms. It had been one hell of a battle, that much was certain.

But there was still a glaring fact represented by the fallen knight’s form; he had lost. Badly.

Where had it all gone so wrong?

How long has it been now? I practically held the world in the palms of my hands, less than a moment from executing His plan and exacting my revenge in full. And now… Nothing.

Sitting cross-legged, Alarde stared silently at the great sword he once carried fearlessly into battle. He could almost see the memories shining back at him through the light and metal. Northrend, the Dragonblight, so much destruction and carnage by his hands. With that cursed blade he slew mortals in droves indiscriminately; men, women, soldiers and civilians, all cut to ribbons or blasted to dust.

But not just the events of Northrend could be seen; images from before, long before his life had ended now seemed to play out as the weapon turned. Scenes that had once been sealed away within his own mind were coming to life again.

Times of joy, everything seeming right in his world for those times as a skilled potion maker and alchemist. His loving betrothed, always there, always smiling, ready to accompany him on his bright journey forward. Violence held no place in his life, or in those of his family and friends. Everything was perfect as far as he was concerned. Perhaps, though, in hindsight; too perfect.

If fate were a physical, sentient being, Alarde could only imagine that was the exact same thought to be had.

An innocent journey to Stormwind, a venture in his profession. That was all it took for a vital piece of his life, his pillar, to be ripped from its place. A one month trip turned vicious, life consuming event faster than he thought to ever be possible.

Murder and arson, the only two crimes, on a list he figured must have become terribly long, that he was ever charged with that were in fact false. But that was all it took in the end. A short trial and a death sentence to seal the events to come.

The Stockades, two dead with another badly wounded as the result of another riot. Follwing with that deal, that accursed deal with the scum of the Stormwind military; serve or die. Training at Theramore, where Alarde was nearly killed several times by both fellow conscript and officers alike. Every test sharpening and hardening his mettle, molding him into one of so many lost souls in that foul company.

Every one different in talents, yet the same in their ultimate destinies it seemed. Answers looking for a problem never to be found.

And finally, one of the most heart crushing visions came forward; his beloved Lyr finding him again on a “trip” to Darnassus. All he had to do was avoid her, let her believe that he had died in Stormwind and allow her to move on in life. The very thought proved unbearable and impossible.

Another string of relatively happy memories paraded before him, for a time things looked to be warm and stable. Perhaps he would have been able to live out a happy life even in such violent circumstances.

And once again, fate decided that it was not to be.

A downpour smothering a dying campfire, smoke and steam swirling about himself, obscuring her grave from his sight. No joy, no empathy, the dying wisps of sorrow dissipating around him. Heat, a hellish inferno from within erupting with unbridled force consumed what was left of the old elf.

Alarde knew these effects were all in his rotting mind, but still the white hot anger of that day could be felt. The last thing he had left to live for had been ripped from his hands and shredded before his very eyes. The rest… Unfortunate history, was probably the best way to describe the trail of blood and lies left in his wake. All of which had led to his current state.

Another gust of wind scraped the halls as the old warrior lowered his eyes from the cursed blade.

“What now, then?”

((A little one-shot here to keep my mind flowing. Cheers!))

Last edited by Alarde Orig on Mon May 30, 2016 8:27 pm; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : Title, d'oh)